Pioggia Gelida: 'Freezing Rain'
by KirishimaAyama
Summary: 'He changed after his first kill.' Yamamoto was so naive, but now he cannot forget that nightmare of his first kill, or remove the stain of blood from his hands. He feels... frozen, unable to move past his grievous mistake.


**Title:** Pioggia Gelida  
**Author:** KirishimaAyama  
**Pairing:** 8059 (implied)  
**Warnings:** Assassinations  
**A/N: **I am a depressing, depressing person.**  
**First Published 29/07/2010.

**Disclaimer:** KHR belongs to Akira Amano.

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**FREEZING RAIN - PIOGGIA GELIDA**

...

He changed after his first kill.

Although he'd fought for years now, end to end, wounded many with the deadly edge of his Shigure Kintoki in the constant battles for his family, for the Vongola, Yamamoto had never taken a life.

It had been a miracle that they had been able to avoid such a method in their world rife with threats, yet somehow such drastic action had never been necessary.

This however, only made it worse when the day came when taking lives would become unavoidable.

But, it was even worse when your first kill was someone innocent.

Just a girl, no more than 16 years. In the wrong place at the wrong time. It hadn't been her fault. How could she have known what was happening in the area when she walked in, unalerted to the dangers around her? All that was left now was her dark sightless eyes as she lay in the ever-expanding pool of blood, dark slashes carved into her small body. The crimson liquid soaked into her light coloured hair, stained her creamy cheek, trickled over to touch the edge of his shoe. The slim hand flung out in his direction, stained with flecks of her own blood, seemed accusing.

_This is the man who murdered me._

A clash of blades in the air as Yamamoto fought double-handed with two katanas against an assailant with a Western sword. Why such implements were used in that time was anyone's guess, but it wasn't his job to question. Skillfully, Yamamoto employed a volley of attacks at the assailant who skipped aside, evading some and managing to block the rest of the attacks directed towards him. Yamamoto patiently drew back, expecting this. He was not even using Shigure Souen Ryu yet, he would get to that when neccessary.

The attacker's sword flashed in the streetlights, the motion appearing jarring to Yamamoto's kenjutsu-trained eye, but he had done a study of many sword styles thanks to Squalo and knew roughly what to predict. Avoiding the attack with ease, Yamamoto was prepared to employ one of his less-powerful disabling Shigure Souen Ryu techniques he often used to disable or disarm opponents when unexpectedly the man turned tail and ran.

What?

He couldn't let the man get away.

Yamamoto pursued, dimly aware of Gokudera fighting in the distance also. Well, they would find each other again later. Both were equipped with communication devices.

Sensing the presence of others with his finely tuned sixth sense, Yamamoto jumped back as four more assailants appeared from various concealments. He prepared to employ his deadly sword style to its fullest capacity.

And the rest was a blur.

The girl sauntered up the street, sleepy at this time of the night, returning home from a late night class. Earphones were plugged into her ears, blaring out popular hits. She nodded her head in time to the music as she scrolled through messages on her phone.

The quiet clang of swords striking each other were never heard by her.

The streetlights never fully illuminated the fighters, in their dark apparel, keeping to the shadows where they usually operated. Only their blades ever dimly shone in the glow from the streetlights.

Even the bloodstains would be gone by morning, the injured assailants treated, and locked up. The Vongola Decimo was merciful, though many would say he wasn't. They'd rather die in battle. It was more honourable than becoming some sort of prisoner of war.

But surely anything was better than death.

Yamamoto had felled the majority of his attackers at this point, although without killing them, there was no guarantee one would not manage to recover himself (or herself) enough to attack again. Their weapons were scattered somewhere on the street also. It would be too easy for one of them to rearm themselves.

His mind was sharply focused on the opponent in front of him, but his hyper alert senses tingled as he waited for that prickle of unease.

He got it.

There was a prescence behind him.

Yamamoto weilded his two katanas deftly and, as fast as a snake attacking, struck the two people simultaneously, catching them both by surprise with the speed of his attack. How cowardly to sneak up on him.

He turned, ready for retaliation but froze as he registered the scene in front of him.

The young girl never stood a chance.

Seeing the gleam of the katana too late, she had frozen, her legs turning to jelly. The attacker, trained, instinctively protected his most important body parts and dispelled some of the damage on him even as he was thrown through the air and dropped like a stone, bleeding profusely. But the girl was just an ordinary girl. She did not - could not - move as the sword pierced her, slicing through her organs as she gave a startled and painful gasp, and then she dropped to the ground, MP3 and phone rolling from her hands with a clatter, bag spilling her schoolbooks across the ground, the crisp white pages already soaking up the crimson blood.

He could only stand there staring until Gokudera arrived, following the ringing sound of his phone, and led him away. He had not been able to rouse himself to answer. The whole incident was covered up in the way most mafia activities are.

But despite Yamamoto's initial shock, if there was something Yamamoto was good at, it was adapting. Although the poor girl invaded his dreams and was the subject of nightmares for almost months, always looking at him accusingly, it was not as though he could bring her back or take back his actions.

"Are you alright, Yamamoto?" Gokudera asked, frowning as he inspected the dark shadows under Yamamoto's eyes with a worried eye. Yamamoto had never looked like that before.

Yamamoto smiled in his usual way though - or at least he tried to. It looked fake as hell.

He came to realise eventually what was history, was history, and all that could happen was to learn from it, and make the world better for her sake. A single sacrifice for a better world. They were pretty words.

It sounded like an excuse, but it was at least something he could do.

Dwelling forever was not an option.

But there was something he could no longer change. Although he was normally the sunny, cheerful Yamamoto most of the time, there was an intensity to him now, a definite edge to him that had not been present before. If the smile dropped away, Yamamoto gazed with assassin-like intensity, the amber of his eyes hard and piercing, no longer a warm gold.

His sharp instinct, keen eyes, fast reflexes, ability to adapt, it was as Reborn once said - Yamamoto had been born to be an assassin. His skills complemented the position perfectly.

But the taking of an innocent life. Not dispatching a corrupt man for the sake of justice like some sort of tenchu, or an assailant in defence of the ones he loved... but someone innocent, who had nothing to do with them. Who had merely been too unobservant.

It was traumatic.

_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris._

_Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return._

Anyone could die. It made him aware of his mortality. The mortality of those he loved. Even as strong as they were. He had to try harder.

The piles of bodies that fell under his gleaming, bloody blade grew higher.

Even the sanest person started losing their mind once the bodies piled up like mountains under their feet. Whether for justice or another reason, one way or another, at some point the blood permanently sticks to one's hands. You lose track of your direction under the splatterings of blood from extinguished lives.

One innocent life he had taken... if you considered it properly, had he really done any good from that?

It was another mission gone wrong the time it happened. Spilled blood was all over the ground, coating it like a layer of crimson paint. The same red liquid shone on Yamamoto's blade. The amount of blood which covered the ground and swordsman was horrific.

"Yamamoto." Gokudera hissed, shocked by the brutality.

Before he could blink, the blood-soaked blade was at his neck, scoring the skin so that a bead of blood slid down Gokudera's throat. Gokudera froze, looking into those ice hard eyes, merciless yet cold and emotionless. His heart hammered in his chest. What had happened to Yamamoto?

But Yamamoto was not moving.

Even though Yamamoto had leaped at him instinctively; something, _something_ had stopped him, and Gokudera could see anguish fill the amber eyes as the ice in those hard eyes cracked and the blade clattered to the ground as Yamamoto stared at his blood drenched appearance.

"Why?" Yamamoto murmured, staring at his bloodstained hands, "Why won't the blood wash away?"

And he smiled grimly.

Gokudera raised a hand to stem the slight trickle of bloos from the cut on his neck as he appraised the taller man.

"Squaring the accounts and washing away the blood spilled, the Requiem Rain." Gokudera murmured and Yamamoto turned his soft amber eyes to him, anguished.

"Your job is an assassin, but more. It's true, blood will never wash away with more blood." Gokudera said, a hard look in his eyes. "But perhaps justice can be served if we remember who we are and why we walk this bloody path - what we are fighting for. Sacrifices are made because they cannot be avoided, but by remembering the lessons of the departed, by remembering who they were, more than just ruthless criminals, but also fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters; we can, perhaps, set things right." Gokudera lowered the hand on his throat. "They also fought for their own ideals, they also thought what they were doing was right. And they too, are human."

Gokudera placed a hand on Yamamoto's bloody coat. "You haven't really used Shigure Souen Ryu in a while, have you?" Gokudera asked with quiet intensity.

Yamamoto shook his head fractionally.

"Because you lost sight of yourself and your path. Share your pain with others, never give up your ideals." Gokudera continued with a gleam in his eye. "In time, the falling rain will wash away all this blood allow us to shed our sadness and grief."

Gokudera plucked the sword from the ground.

"Remember them, but never let them dominate you. Let yourself heal."

With that, Gokudera walked up to Yamamoto and pulled the taller man's head down to rest on his shoulder as a soft drizzle began to fall, expanding to a heavy rain within seconds. But the two figures embracing in the middle of the battlefield did not seem to notice as Gokudera waited patiently as hot tears rolled down his neck, the blood washing off the both of them in rivlets as Yamamoto cried as he'd never cried before. All the held back emotion, guilt, unease, worry, grief, spilled out of him in an overwhelming wave.

But as he stroked Yamamoto's hair gently, his own sodden hair dripping water onto his nose which then rolled off the tip, Gokudera was glad that at last, Yamamoto was healing.


End file.
